


a strange way to tell you

by oflights



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oflights/pseuds/oflights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidney has a plan to break the curse of the third jerseys. Geno doesn't really complain that much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a strange way to tell you

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, what a lengthy break I took from this pairing!! No but honestly, this is just pointless porn, it doesn't even count, I'm going to go back to writing longfic for another pairing posthaste. Thanks to Bridget for reading this over!
> 
> (Oh, and when I say third jerseys, I mean the ones the Pens are using this year, so the 2011 Winter Classic dark blue cursed ones.)

Nothing gets weird until they’re in Sidney’s bedroom. 

Mostly they’ve just been making out lazily on the couch all night, urgency bubbling up in only the last few minutes so that Sidney had had to start moving them upstairs. Sidney tries not to trip them both when their feet tangle on the landing and Geno kisses him harder for his efforts and backs him through his bedroom doorway. 

They turn once inside, Sidney backing Geno up now toward the bed, but Geno resists to grope behind Sidney for the light switch. Sidney makes a move like he wants to stop him and keep him close, but Geno persists because he likes to look, and then he flicks the light on and turns around.

It takes Geno’s brain a second to actually register what he sees on the bed, mostly because Sidney has started pulling his clothes off and that’s incredibly distracting. So is the slight whine in his voice when he says, “Geno,” and kisses him again, light and probably meant to tease, but then he gets too into it and dips his tongue past Geno’s lips like he can’t even help it.

 _That’s_ a distracting enough thought, so it’s another minute or two before Geno can pull back and squint at the bed and what he sees there. “What?” Sidney says, and he is really the worst ever at playing dumb; he doesn’t even widen his eyes that much, and his cheeks are tellingly pink.

“Do laundry?” Geno asks, not hiding the amusement in his voice.

Sidney makes a face, first at Geno and then at the two third jerseys laid out across the bedspread, the respective C and A on the front of each prominently displayed. The dark blue is stark and deep against the off-white of Sidney’s comforter; they couldn’t look more out of place than in another team’s dressing room. “I guess—I mean, maybe my housekeeper put them there—”

“You lie,” Geno says, shaking his head and shaking it harder when Sidney tries to glare at him. “Sid, we talk about this. Curses not real.”

This time, Sidney does succeed in glaring at him. “I’m not saying they’re cursed, I’m just saying—”

“You saying sweaters why we lose games,” Geno interrupts, which probably isn’t fair, because Sidney’s never _said_ that, and superstitions are only like 10% of what he puts into his game; the other 190% is hard work. 

Sidney squawks a little, which is both fair and funny, and funnier still when he slugs Geno on the shoulder. “No! _No_ , that is not what I’m saying. I’m just saying, no good has ever come from those sweaters, since the day we started wearing them, and I think we can—”

“Break curse?” Geno says dubiously, and Sidney slugs him again, narrowing his eyes.

“No. There’s no curse. Just—maybe we can make some good come out of them?” Sidney goes a little pinker, eyes sparkling a little as he adds, “Or, well—come _on_ them.”

It takes a minute for those words to actually register as what they mean, and then Geno groans loudly, shaking his head. “ _Sid._ ”

“Whatever, it is not that weird!” Sidney insists. Geno just shakes his head again, trying not to burst out into actual laughter.

“You are crazy.”

“People have had sex on way weirder things than hockey jerseys,” Sidney says, face screwed up like he’s trying to conjure up lists of those weirder things. 

Geno puts his hands up when he opens his mouth again, because he really doesn’t want to hear about the weirder things that Sidney can come up with. He has a good point, is the thing, but there’s a difference between humoring Sidney and these superstitions and actively encouraging them, and the team as a whole has always tried to walk that line. Encourage them too much and no one’s sure how crazy Sidney could theoretically get; nobody wants to find out, either.

“Geno,” Sidney says, leaning in close and actually making full-on eye contact. His eyes still hold some of the heat from before, even if this conversation had taken most of it out of the air. He bites his bottom lip and Geno finds his eyes tracing the movement involuntarily, able then to watch Sidney’s lips quirk up. “It’s just sex, yeah? If we turn off the lights, you don’t even have to see where we’re doing it.”

“Like to look,” Geno reminds him, voice lower than he means. He watches Sidney’s flush come back and knows the eye contact won’t follow any time soon now, but it’s true that he likes to look, and Sidney knows it.

“See,” Sidney says, and he’s lowered his voice too, leaning in some more. He’s down to his briefs and he’s radiating warmth through Geno’s clothes and maybe it’s kind of ridiculous that Geno is still so attracted to him after the conversation they’d just had, but he really, really is. “See Geno, you’ve got your thing, with the looking, and I can have mine.”

“Your thing is crazy,” Geno says, but it’s half-hearted, honestly. Sidney is too close for Geno not to be touching him, putting his hands on his hips and rubbing his thumbs over the soft skin above his waistband. 

Sidney makes a face and it’s an easy decision to lean down and kiss his wrinkled nose. He watches Sidney battle with himself a bit—keep being annoyed at Geno calling him crazy, or let Geno keep kissing him like he wants to, like they both want to. He makes the predictable choice and leans up for more kissing.

They’re good at this, really good at reading each other and pinpointing exactly how to get the other into it, and it’s not long before Geno’s pretty much lost in the kissing again, the same haze he’d been in downstairs until Sidney had dragged him up. Geno’s never been with someone he could just kiss for ages and keep enjoying it, and his favorite time to indulge them is first thing in the morning, when they’re sleepy and already only barely aware of anything outside the two of them.

This time, Sidney has Geno lost enough to only partially realize they’re inching toward the bed again, and he doesn’t even really think about the downsides to indulging Sidney’s craziness again. Geno fits his hands flat against Sidney’s back and lowers him down onto the bed beneath him without breaking the kiss, feeling Sidney’s breathing hitch against his mouth.

“Sneaky,” Geno whispers against Sidney’s mouth, and Sidney huffs and wraps his arms around Geno’s neck, kissing him harder. 

Sidney was right; he only notices that they’re not on top of Sidney’s comforter because he’d seen the jerseys there. Geno kisses Sidney with very little mind and probably wouldn’t register the backs of his hands catching on the printed jersey logo as he pulls them out from under Sidney’s bare back otherwise. As it is, he can forget they’re there because kissing Sidney really is the most important thing on his mind, even if he has to add, “Good thing I like crazy,” in between kisses across Sidney’s cheeks.

“ _Geno_ ,” Sidney says, batting his shoulders and then narrowing his eyes as he presumably remembers Geno’s still wearing all his clothes. Geno sits up to straddle Sidney’s lap and then lets himself being manhandled into nakedness, only interrupting for more kissing, to lean in and suck and nip at Sidney’s neck too teasingly close to his mouth.

When they’re both down to boxer-briefs, Geno pulls Sidney close to him so that they’re chest to chest. Skin on skin is enough to make him harder than he’s been since this started, and the way Sidney’s mouth opens against the side of his face and his hips jerk a little tells him it’s doing the same thing for Sidney. 

But Geno likes to look best, so it’s not long before he pushes Sidney down again and climbs almost all the way off. Sidney whines, reaching out, and Geno twines their hands together and kisses Sidney’s knuckles, looking down at his red, red mouth and heaving chest.

The thing is, he actually looks fucking _good_ against the stupid jerseys—that blue was always a good color on Sidney, Geno thought, and now that just seems frustrating. Geno pulls one hand free to run it through Sidney’s hair, smiling as he jerks his head a little like he hadn’t seen that coming.

“Look good, Sid.”

“Ugh,” Sidney says, and they’ve been down this road before; Geno should really know better. Sidney likes to hear performance praises more than anything—he likes to know what he’s doing right, if he’s hitting the right spot, if he’s keeping the right pace, and sometimes if they’re far gone enough, if he’s being good. He gets weirded out by most other kind of talk, so Geno usually saves that either for Russian or for after, when they’re sweaty and sleepy and tangled up and Sidney still looks just as good to him.

But Sidney looks so fucking good like this, hard beneath Geno and already all flushed and sweaty. Geno likes to touch, too, and he can, though he thinks he has about five seconds before Sidney gets impatient and tries to flip them.

He’s not letting that happen, so he touches Sidney where it counts, reaching into his briefs and palming his dick. Sidney twists his hips a little, probably because it’s dry, but he groans out hard, too, and lifts into the touch.

“Off,” he says inarticulately after Geno strokes him gently a few times, and Geno freezes and prepares to scramble off Sidney, the command jarring and alarming. But Sidney shakes his head and says, “Take them off, please,” and starts trying to struggle out of his briefs.

Geno sighs big and says, “Mess?” because sometimes they do it like this when they’re not going all the way, and he doesn’t think they’re getting that far tonight, not with a road trip starting tomorrow. 

Sidney doesn’t like mess, and it’s hot to him now, getting off in their underwear like they’re still horny teenagers who can’t wait long enough to get out of their clothes. But now Sidney says, “It’s okay, I want it to be messy,” and then he goes so red Geno has to beam at him.

“Freak,” he says gleefully, with lots of love in his voice. Sidney still glares at him.

He stops glaring when they’re both naked, when Geno has scooped the tube of lubricant up from where they’d kicked it under the bed the other night. The skin catches on each other because of sweat now, but between them the lube is cool and makes the slide of their dicks pretty perfect, making them both groan out loud. 

Sidney’s legs go up around Geno’s waist, which really isn’t a good angle but is stupid hot anyway, and his arms go up around his neck again, and Geno doesn’t often get this many signals that Sidney wants him to take of this for both of them; he’s not going to whiff on them now. He takes both their dicks in hand, murmurs nonsense when Sidney jerks his hips hard and tightens his legs.

And then it’s just a matter of pressing against each other and jerking them both, breathing out hot and dampening the air around them with musk. Geno doesn’t let Sidney move much, keeps him pinned with his weight and planning to keep him like this until they both come all over Sidney’s belly, because if Sidney wants mess he’s going to get it this time.

Geno’s knees slide on the jerseys but they would do that on the comforter, too, and really it’s easy to forget Sidney’s actually crazy when he’s like this, all the way gone from rationality in the same exact way Geno is, because of Geno and not hockey superstitions. Geno leans in and kisses Sidney hard, twisting his wrist because he knows how to make Sidney crazy best of all, and it’s a talent he holds above most others.

Sidney comes mumbling Geno’s name against his lips, and Geno swallows the sounds up and grinds down until he’s following him over. 

It takes a lot of willpower not to just collapse on top of Sidney and not move again ever, but Geno makes himself roll off and flop onto his side. He watches Sidney’s chest and stomach lower with more even breathes, streaked with white that Geno’s already wondering if he can get away with running his hand through; he’s not sure how much mileage Sidney’s willing to allow from this mess thing. 

Not a lot, as it turns out. Sidney starts looking uncomfortable as soon as his breathing steadies, making a face down at his torso and sighing a little. “Roll over?” Geno asks, remembering the jerseys, and Sidney shoves at him a little and shakes his head. 

“No, there’s some—I think we did all right,” Sidney says, so red, and Geno has to laugh, then, turning his face into Sidney’s shoulder and kissing it. 

“We break curse,” Geno says definitively, and Sidney shoves at him again, but Geno keeps him pulled close, on their sides front to front. He has mere minutes before Sidney will want to shower, can see him twitching with the desire, and he wants to use those minutes wisely. “You know why I go along, yes?” He waves his hand around to encompass the jerseys, and Sidney, and the slow smile crawling over his face, and he’s happy that Sidney gets it so fast.

“Yeah, I know. Same reason I ask you to go along,” Sidney says, and he sounds so happy that Geno would have sex on a hundred crazy things just to make him sound like that again.

To be fair, he thinks he’d have sex with Sidney on top of anything, because he’s Sidney. Geno’s not going to say that out loud or anything, but he thinks Sidney knows anyway.

 

The next time they wear the third jerseys, Sidney and Geno put up a combined six points, and Sidney looks radiant the entire night. Geno looks, and tries to sigh over Sidney’s validated superstition, but when Sidney grabs him in a hug after the sixth point and joyously yells, “We broke that fucking curse!” in his ear, all he can manage is a big grin.


End file.
